


verba temere

by simonetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24258235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonetta/pseuds/simonetta
Summary: Drabbles under 400 words revolving around post-ADWD Winterfell and those that inhabit it.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 130





	1. Milk

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn’t what y’all are waiting for but this is a little exercise I did to get my brain back in it. I know my WIPs are on a long delay – I’ve had a pretty tumultuous spring, but I am planning on updating them all within the next month or so. 
> 
> Each drabble is based on a random word and less than 400 words. 
> 
> This is very rough and unedited, so sorry about that. I wanted to let people know that yes, I am alive haha. I wasn't really planning on posting this but I figure why not. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word: Milk  
> Character: Dany

The milk-white fingers stood out against the black of his cloak like the moon in the night sky. They were the first thing Daenerys noticed about the so-called _king_ seated before her. 

She saw the fingers even before the enormous wolf at his feet; white as snow with eyes so red that for the briefest moment she believed they were bloody. 

She saw the fingers even before her gaze fell upon the bronze crown of swords in his dark hair; his heavy grey eyes the color of smoke and ash; his simple, dark leather jerkin and tunic and trousers that made him look more like a solider than a king. 

No, it was the fingers that captured her eyes. 

Long and delicate and milk-white. Pale as the snow. Pale as the wolf. The woman’s face was just as pale, colored only by the soft rose of her cheeks and of her full, round lips. The startling crimson of her hair – the same blood-shade of the wolf’s eyes – framed her moon-white face in soft curls. Loose hair, as simple as the dove-grey dress she wore adorned only with tiny white thread flowers around the high neck and hem. The woman could not look more opposite her half-brother. Tyrion Lannister had claimed she was a beauty, but Daenerys wasn’t so convinced. She was too simple. Unadorned and pale. If she hadn’t been standing next to the false-king, she’d have assumed the woman was a castle maid rather than a lady. 

But those milk-white fingers in the king's dark cloak. 

They bothered her.

They spoke of possession. 

They spoke of power and alliance. 

They staked a claim.


	2. Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word: Sin  
> Character: Sansa

When she was a girl she’d believed in the gods. In her mother’s gods. Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Stranger. Seven faces of one God who loved her and would bless her so long as she did her prayers and followed the teachings of The Seven-Pointed Star.

But she wasn’t a girl anymore. 

The hand at her hip tightened, and she smiled. 

She supposed she did believe in her Father’s gods. _Something_ had brought Jon back, after all. But if she’d lost faith in her mother’s gods after they abandoned her at the Twins, why should she have any more faith in those that abandoned her father on the steps of Baelor’s Sept? Stories. That was all they were. And the years had taught her the truth of stories. 

She kicked the furs from her naked body. She was too warm despite the cool sweat on her skin. 

If the gods were not real, then sin was not real either, she supposed. Besides, if sins were truly bad, she should feel worse. She should feel dirtier. But in truth, she felt safer and more loved and more seen than she ever had in her life. How could such happiness – such warmth and comfort – be a sin? 

The sweet, dull ache between her thighs spread through her limbs as she felt herself fade into sleep. 

Sin was gentle and sweet. Sin was intoxicating and all-consuming. 

If she was sinful, so be it. 

Turning, she pressed a gentle kiss to the source of her sinfulness. He’d answered more of her prayers than the gods ever had.


	3. Detail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word: Detail  
> Character: Arya

It was stupid, really. She hadn’t cried in the godswood or in the great hall or even in the bloody crypt. She hadn’t cried in her old bedroom. She hadn’t even cried when she finally saw Sansa and Jon, though it had been years and years since she had embraced a Stark. Years and years of believing she never would. Even when she was struck cold by the jarring likeness to her parents Jon and Sansa had grown into, she didn’t cry. 

But this tiny, stupid chip in the stone of the old keep made her weep like a babe. Weep like she hadn’t in _years._

Years before, after hours of pleading and begging, Robb and Jon had agreed to show her some of the moves they’d been learning from Ser Rodrik. 

She’d hoisted a wooden sword that had been twice her size and tried desperately to mimic her brothers, but her swing and the weight of the wooden sword had thrown her off balance and into the ancient stone wall. The helm Robb had jokingly plopped on her head minutes before saved her from injury, but it had also removed a small chunk from the stone. Robb and Jon had laughed, pointed out the small mar in the smooth stone, and told her she’d wounded her first enemy. 

It was so small Arya had almost missed it. If it weren't for the little alder tree that somehow had been spared the fires and sieges she wouldn’t have known it. But her eyes had caught on the tree and sparked the memory and within seconds she’d found the tiny mark. The minute detail that any other person would have overlooked. 

But it was there. 

Evidence of her girlhood. Of Robb. Of the Jon she’d known – not this older, darker, distant Jon she barely recognized. 

Proof she’d been innocent once. 

Proof it wasn’t all a dream. 

And it was there, staring at that stupid little chip, that Arya Stark finally broke down and cried. 


	4. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word: Peace  
> Character: Jon

Sometimes – often – it felt as if Jon has been at war his whole life. Even before the true wars began. His boyhood was punctuated by a constant war within himself – between shame and pride; longing and resignation; honor and duty; family and oath. Then the war with the wildlings, with the Boltons, with the Others, with his aunt. Peace was a foreign feeling even now that the spring was blooming and the North, free and independent and finally safe and secure, engaged in no wars. It was a time of planting and resting and building. But still, Jon felt the phantom of war in his bones. Felt it when he trained; when he ruled; when he collapsed into bed and pulled his wife close, afraid he’d wake to find her gone. 

But now, finally, looking down at the sleepy grey eyes of his son, he knew peace. 

Osric Stark was barely two hours old. Born in the hour of the wolf, as was befitting the symbol of Stark restoration and hope. He’d entered the world screaming, but now he rested in his exhausted mother’s arms, happily staring up at his father with a belly full of milk. 

“He looks like you,” the queen murmured. “He looks like a Stark.”

“It’s too early to know that,” Jon whispered, his thumb brushing gently over his son’s cheek as he leaned against his wife. 

She scoffed tiredly and ran her long fingers through the prince’s dark wisps of hair. “He does not have the look of a Tully.” 

Jon smiled softly. “Does that bother you?”

“No.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m quite fond of the Stark look.”

Jon hummed contentedly as his son curled tiny fingers around his thumb. “I’m quite fond of the Tully look.”

He felt his wife smile against his cheek. 

Finally, the last shard of ice lodged in his undead heart thawed. For the first time in years, he felt peace. Life and spring and love and peace.


	5. Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word: Soon  
> Character: Sansa

The words ran through her head again and again. 

_“I think he’ll agree soon. He knows marriage is what is best for his people, and for our kingdoms.”_

Her stomach churned at the thought of blood and charcoal beneath the heart tree. 

_“I think he’ll agree soon.”_

She bit her lip as rage and jealously and protectiveness seared her bones. 

_“He’ll agree soon.”_

Winter’s chill caressed her skin as she threw the furs back and stumbled into a pair of slippers. Her crimson hair fell in loose ringlets about her shoulders, which were themselves graced only with her night linens and a robe. But in her moment of clarity, propriety was the farthest thing from her mind. 

Not for the first time was she grateful her ancestors had built the small, secret passage that connected the Lord and Lady of Winterfell’s personal chambers. A confrontation with his guards in nothing but her nightdress might have deterred her from this mission. 

_“Soon.”_

The King was seated at his desk when she burst into the room, weary head in his hands. He started at her entrance; jumped up and opened his mouth to question the hour, her dress, and her obvious distress. But before he could utter a syllable, she gripped his shoulders and spoke. 

“Marry me.”

Stark grey eyes widened from where they stared down at her. 

“You know it is our best option. It solves everything. I’m the Lady of Winterfell, our marriage will give you the castle and keep it with the Crown. You haven’t taken your father’s name, so it will be a bastard’s wedding. You can take mine. You’ll assure the lords of your loyalty to our house and to the North. You’ll remove one of her bargaining chips. We have all danced around this obvious solution for months. None of us had the courage to voice it. But please, Jon, you know it’s the only choice.” 

Her grip tightened. Her imploring eyes watched his face as he absorbed her plea. Her offer. But all she could see was moon white hair and violet eyes. All she could smell was foreign perfume and the linger of smoke. All she could hear were those cursed words, spoken to the Queen’s advisor in an alcove; intended not to be heard. 

_“I think he’ll agree soon. He knows marriage is what is best for his people, and for our kingdoms.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is busy. i'll be back to my WIPs soon.


End file.
